Not Quite Married (17 page)

In the last twenty months, she had chided and berated herself for giving in to his callous manipulations after their vows. How could she have surrendered her body, her pride, her virtue to a total stranger? Now she had the answer. He hadn’t seemed like a stranger to her.

In the lengthening silence, as she stared at him and he at her, she had that same sense of familiarity that went far beyond what she had actually experienced with him. Their gazes met and she felt a pull of longing deep in her chest. Shocked and suddenly frightened by the need blooming in her, she drew back.

“What’s past is past,” she declared, burying her hands in the sides of her skirts and seizing handfuls of silk . . . squeezing . . .

trying to control the trembling of her hands. “We shall forget it.”

“How, sweet lady, do you propose I forget the sight of you tousled and half-naked, bathed in the gold of candlelight? How do I erase the memory of your silky heat against my belly and—”

“Stop!” she cried, wishing she could stop herself from feeling warmer and more susceptible by the moment. “If you have any thought of climbing into my bed because of our regrettable history, you’ll do well to rid yourself of it right now.”

“A bit late for that, isn’t it?” he said, leading her gaze with his to the bed that still bore the imprint of his body. “I have already been there.”

“Out! Get out before I call for help.” Her eyes burned and her palm itched for contact with his smug face.

“It will be interesting to see how long it takes for you to change your mind.” He raked her body visually. “We’ll have several long weeks,” he continued, drawing an arch overhead with one hand,

“with a canopy of stars overhead and the gentle sway of the ship under your”—his hand moved in an arc that suggested her lower contours—“bed.”

She stood fighting for control and lost. “Out!”

She stalked toward him, and he retreated to the open window with a wolfish grin.

“Oh, and since you value your honor so highly, I suggest you leave that dress at home.” He sat on the sill and paused to give the neckline of her fashionable burgundy silk an appreciative glance before swinging his legs over the ledge. “It has one hell of an effect. Wear it on board, and I’ll not be answerable for the conduct of my crew.”

“Get out!”

She seized pillows from the bed and flung them against the edge of the window, just missing him as he slipped over the edge of the sill. As the sounds of him scrambling across the roof faded, she slammed the window shut and latched it securely. She held up her hands and stared in disbelief at the way they trembled. One night . . . a few fiery words exchanged . . . and she was steaming hot and quaking all over with confusion.

How would she ever survive a whole month at sea?

Thirteen

THE MORNING THEY SAILED, Lord Emery escorted Brien’s party to their ship and supervised the loading of their trunks and baggage.
The Lady’s Secret
was a hive of activity. Dockhands streamed up the gangplank rolling barrels and hauling baskets, crates, and boxes of provisions onto the deck and below; crewmen climbed up into the rigging to check every line and lashing; and a huge wooden boom was swinging and lowering pallets and bales into the hold. Everywhere there were men and cargo in motion. The sights and sounds of preparing a ship for sea had become familiar to Brien over the last year, but would never be routine to her. Her heart beat faster and her senses sharpened as they mounted the gangplank and called for permission to board.

They were met at the ship’s railing by a young man in a crisp blue officer’s uniform. He identified himself as Robert Hicks,
The
Lady’s Secret
’s first officer. His unruly brown hair and lively eyes gave him a youthful and pleasant appearance.

“We are honored, my lady. When the captain related to me that we would have passengers on this maiden voyage, he neglected to mention that they would be so lovely.”

“I am sure your captain has more important things on his mind.”

Brien caught his use of the plural and turned to look at her maid, who was blushing. “May we walk about on deck until we are under sail?”

“Of course. The view will be better from the quarterdeck.” Hicks swept a hospitable hand toward the steps to the upper deck at the rear of the vessel.

Lord Emery escorted Brien and Jeannie to the designated deck, safely out of the way of the loading operation, and stayed with them for a time, pointing out interesting details of the ships and harbor. Later, as Lord Emery strode along the dock to his waiting coach, Brien felt a bit abandoned and looked anxiously around her.

It struck her, a moment later, that she was looking for Aaron Durham. Annoyed, she straightened her shoulders and told herself firmly that it was a relief not to find him. But she glimpsed Jeannie’s pale and tight-lipped face, and the strain in the little maid’s countenance reminded her that she was responsible for more than herself on this trip. And her mission, their safety, and probably their very lives depended on Aaron Durham’s competence and integrity. And she had no idea whether she could count on him for either.

She smoothed her soft woolen dress beneath her cloak, as if it might quell the jitters in her stomach. It didn’t. Then she spotted Dyso perched on the forecastle railing, watching the loading and studying the crew. His quick, dark eyes didn’t miss much, Brien knew, and he was loyal to a fault and deeply protective of her.

His solid and dependable presence was all that allowed her to manage the anxiety climbing up her throat. If things with Aaron Durham became intolerable, there would always be Dyso.

While Brien strolled the quarterdeck, Aaron Durham took in her every move from a vantage point atop a dwindling stack of crates on the dock. His eyes narrowed as they flitted over her form, all but hidden beneath the substantial dark wool of traveling garments. His mouth curled into a half-smile. What did it matter how she dressed? The image of her as she was the other night—ripe and luscious, wrapped in an air of hauteur, spilling over a wine-colored silk—was burned into his brain.

For nearly two years she had deviled his every idle thought, growing steadily more lush and tender and sweetly melancholy in his memory. He realized with a scowl that he had allowed her to twine about his imaginings and grow into a virgin temptress who sought out his every need and eagerly fulfilled his desires.

Seeing her in the flesh in London had set him reeling. The focus of his desires had a different form and a decidedly more uncooperative nature than he recalled. Now she had not only a name and a delectable body, but also a formidable wit, an indomitable spirit, and an even more tumultuous history than he had guessed.

No—he rubbed his chin thoughtfully—this was not his private mistress. When he faced her in the Devons’ drawing room, he had been stunned by her impact. Every line and curve of her body, every sweep of her lashes, every gesture of her hands reminded him of some half-forgotten element of the pleasure he had experienced with her. His wraithlike “virgin”—the sweet, vulnerable inhabitant of his dreams—was swept away in a heartbeat and replaced by this tantalizing woman of earth and warmth.

Even now his breath was quickening and there was a tightening in his loins. His eagerness for her was unsettling. How much of his fascination with her, he wondered, was caused by the fact that for nearly two years he had believed she was his wife?

That had nothing to do with it. He’d never wanted a wife, had actively avoided all associations and entanglements that might result in such a tie. Hell, he’d thrown the family title in his father’s teeth to avoid being saddled with a pedigreed brood mare! Why was he so unwilling to accept her story about the fraudulent vows and nonexistent vicar?

Because he didn’t know if it were true or not, he told himself.

How could he go about the rest of his life without knowing whether or not he was married? Her story about the missing records and a scheme to swindle her sounded a bit too convenient

. . . like something crafted to throw doubt on whatever claims he might press with her. After all, she had wealth, rank, and social position . . . any number of desirable assets.

He was jarred from those thoughts by a cry from the deck to load the last of the cargo—the very crates on which he sat. Climbing down from his perch, he watched Robert Hicks escort Brien and her maid toward their cabins and smiled to himself.

There was only one thing he wanted from Lady Brien Weston Trechaud. And it had nothing to do with her wealth, rank, or social position.

BRIEN’S THOUGHTS WERE still on the whereabouts of the ship’s captain as she followed the
Secret
’s first officer down the steps to the passengers’ quarters. Managing a small jewelry case with one hand and her skirts with the other, she quickly found herself trapped halfway down the steep, narrow steps by her hoops and panniers. The metal bands tilted and scraped along the walls, raising her skirts behind her and binding her legs in front so that every step forward and downward was a battle. Mr. Hicks, who had descended ahead of her, emitted a strangled noise that probably had begun as a laugh and Jeannie, descending behind her carrying hatboxes and personal items, gasped in horror and tried to help her mistress.

“Never mind,” Brien muttered furiously. “I’ll do it.”

Halting, she backed up two steps, seized the metal bands, and squeezed them flat at her sides, causing ripping, popping sounds and setting her skirts billowing wildly in front and back. Her face caught fire. Mr. Hicks, standing on the steps below, was undoubtedly treated to quite a show. She scraped and bounced her way down to the landing and turned to proceed down the few remaining steps. Just as she reached the main floor of the common room, she was yanked back forcibly by her garments—“Ahhhh!”—flailed, and dropped her jewel case, which tumbled across the inner deck.

She regained her balance and looked up to find her hoop caught on the wooden knob at the top of the landing railing. Mortified now, her rear exposed and her movement hindered by the skirts twisted about her, she heard an amused chuckle from the top of the stairs, that grew to rich, deep male laughter. Aaron Durham descended the steps to relieve Jeannie of her boxes so she could help her mistress.

When Brien reached the common room and allowed her skirts to billow normally again, she was horrified to find that they filled almost a quarter of the modest room. She wheeled on Aaron with her eyes flashing.

“You take strange amusement in others’ misfortunes, sir,” she declared, then turned on Mr. Hicks. “Lead on.”

Fighting her way down another narrow passage and through an even narrower door to her cabin, she was relieved to find the cabin itself large enough to permit her skirts to billow out once more.

“This will be your cabin, my lady. I hope you will be comfortable here.” He turned to Jeannie. “If you will follow me, miss? Your cabin is at the end of the passage.”

“Why is her cabin not by mine?” Brien demanded angrily.

“The captain assigns cabins, my lady. You will have to speak to him about that.”

She groaned in frustration, staring at the door where they had disappeared. A moment later, Aaron Durham, clad in a partly open white shirt, dark breeches, and tall black boots, stuck his head through the cabin doorway.

“My lady, if you continue to wear those hoops aboard this vessel, my men will be greatly amused. And I suspect you will be most uncomfortable. I suggest you pack them away until we dock in Boston.”

His presence filled the room and she drew her shoulders up sharply to counter it.

“It is clear I’ve begun to learn lessons of life at sea,” she said irritably. “And why can’t my maid have the next cabin instead of one at the far end of the passage?”

“Because, my lady, the next cabin is the captain’s.” He gave her a wicked grin as he ducked back out the door.

He had arranged to have her isolated from her servants, in a cabin beside his? Slamming the door shut, she jerked up her skirts and tore at the ties of her petticoats. Seconds later the doomed hoop lay at her feet and she gave it a kick, wishing it were part of the captain’s anatomy.

The gentle rolling of the ship as they got under way calmed Brien’s ruffled nerves. But as they met the churning waters of the Atlantic, the swaying increased and she began to learn the true meaning of the term
mal de mer.
She was grateful for the windows that admitted fresh air and light. She lay down briefly on the narrow bunk and found it only made her feel worse.

Then Mr. Hicks knocked on the door to call her to dinner in the common room. Her pale, drawn face and tight lips drew a sympathetic look and a suggestion that she keep something in her stomach and stay upright until she adjusted to the ship’s movement. He offered to bring her some crackers and when he returned with them, she thanked him, closed the door, and propped herself upright beside the small window, drinking in fresh air and regretting every prideful and materialistic impulse she had ever harbored—especially those responsible for this trip.

Early the next morning, Brien was awakened by First Officer Hicks, knocking on the door with a tray of food and news that Jeannie was quite ill. She thanked him for his gentlemanly offer to look after the maid, but insisted she would see to the girl herself. At his suggestion, she ate some of the porridge, jam, and tea he had brought her, feeling the stronger for it. As she dressed—cursing the tyranny of fashion and finally dispensing with a corset she couldn’t tighten by herself—she realized her head was clear, her stomach was quiet, and she was much steadier on her feet.

Jeannie’s small cabin reeked of sickness when Brien entered. She set about opening the window, emptying the chamber pot, and then washing the little maid’s ashen face. Jeannie groaned weakly and apologized again and again as Brien helped her change into a clean nightdress and sat down on the edge of the bunk to brush out the girl’s hair.

“You concentrate on getting well. I’ll manage on my own for a few days.” She smiled, but poor Jeannie only groaned and was sick again. Alarmed, she went to the common room, where she found Mr. Hicks drinking coffee before his watch began.